A Poem a Day (598): The block

 
The block
 
He set it all on fire,
crawling, the urban light
stifled by night,
the all-seeing lamps dented
in straight lines walk on down,
stealing the air’s pure
camouflage.
 
Streaking the wind,
scraps of newspapers,
in big, bold letters,
speak a lack of gratitude,
unread.
 
They loiter as one, slunk
into the wall, osmosis funk,
rattle off, stick a fragrant smoke,
pass a domino effect;
no one remembers the hour
they were born, off the page,
now on the page.
 
Someone’s daughter lost her sight
behind the gate; someone’s kid,
she was found too late. A green,
broken bottle marks the spot.
 
No stages sound outside the wall,
loud voices subside into silence;
this isn’t a breakout call.
 
Dark cut-out windows glare out.
Tall-shafted. No lift will carry you here.
It gave in years before.

Painted smiles grin
from beer-stained brick.
Browned gum sticks in spiral patterns,
glitter seeking to create a sparkle.

But this grey cancer ravages
through concrete, digging holes,
cracks in forgotten time. Iron rails
usher like prison guards.

Tiles peel from walls
so thin you can breathe through them.
They keep you in.

Cameras forever on watch capture nothing.
It’s the sprawling conundrum of alleyways
that have stories to tell.
 
If you dial out, no one will enter here.
You’ll wait a lifetime for a lifeline.
 
It’s coming down in stages,
but this part still stands, a stooping,
skeletal shout-back to the 50s’
quick-fix housing boom.
Sold.
 
Most families packed up,
shifted miles from their relatives,
so only a handful remain, the grey crew,
steadfast til the bulldozers come.
 
It’s an anniversary for some,
a self-burial for the old.
 
Ghosts clamber the metal stairwells
by night, flown figments
of an imagination run wild.
 
We wilter down the evergreens,
not enough light to grow anything.
Life stagnates left behind. 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 5, 2023